


Up in the Attic

by little_abyss



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Developing Relationship, Dress Up, Fenders February, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 12:58:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5870548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When helping Hawke to clear out the Amell Estate attic, Fenris discovers a box.  Together, he and Anders put the things they find in it to good use.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Up in the Attic

**Author's Note:**

> Whoa, this is... pretty silly, even by my standards. But I did so love the idea of this, so here it is. Happy Fenders February!

“Oh, Andraste’s  _ knickerweasles _ , you’re a disaster!”

“Really?  Because it looked so much better on you?”

“It did,”  Anders smiles coyly, and then shrugs.  “Everything always does.”

 

Fenris harrumphs.  The mage has been in a rare mood today; buoyant, almost.  They are meant to be helping Hawke clear out the attic in the Amell estate, a job which nobody is really looking forward to.  Hawke, of course, is meant to be here herself, but after half an hour had begun complaining so ferociously of the dust, then sneezing and watering at the eyes, that Anders had ordered her downstairs.  “Make yourself useful!  Go get coffee!” he had yelled after her, and Fenris had smiled, shaking his head before tearing open another box.

 

What he had discovered had dominated the entire half-hour which followed.  It was a box of old clothing - not Leandra’s, too old for that, but possibly her mother’s.  Maker, they had smelt awful; musty, mildewy.  Fenris had meant to simply tip them all down the stairs, into the pile of things to put out into the garbage, but Anders had stopped him, curious.

 

“What’s this?” 

Fenris had shrugged.  “Old clothes.  That’s what it looks like.”

“Hmm,” Anders had said, and the look on his face was so mischievous, Fenris couldn’t help but narrow his eyes.  He still expects to be made the butt of a joke; some part of him still cannot believe that he’s not only permitted to jest with these people, but almost expected to.   _ You could almost call them friends _ , he thinks and swallows.  He shifts uncomfortably, then smiles slightly as Anders takes a horrible, threadbare feather boa from the top of the box and wraps it around his neck.  “What do you think?  Are the feathers  _ moi _ ?”

 

“You look like an idiot, mage…”

“Well then!  Let’s see you do better!”  And with that, Anders takes the second item from the box, a straw boater hat with a hole in the top and puts it on his head.  It pushes the tips of Fenris’ ears down, and he glowers as Anders laughs.  It is not mean laughter, however, so Fenris smiles slightly and asks, “Well?”

 

“Nope.  That’s not you at all…”

And thus it begins.  Most of the outfits Anders picks for himself are simply stupid - halter tops and platform shoes, a kaftan with ripped sleeves, a denim jacket with a million silly patches and rhinestones sewn all over it.  But he genuinely seems to think about what he hands to Fenris, and although he knows it is silly, Fenris rather likes it.  It makes him think Anders likes to see him happy.

 

But Fenris has to cover his mouth when Anders wiggles into the long blue gingham skirt, pulling it on over his trousers.  He bites on the muscle between his thumb and forefinger, just catching it between his teeth, because the way that the skirt pulls up the fabric of Anders’ jeans, making them bunch around his crotch… it makes him think not of dressing up, but of taking clothes off.  Of lifting the skirt perhaps, crawling underneath it; unbuttoning the fly of Anders jeans, feeling Anders’ hand on the back of his head, there in the gloaming underneath the fabric of the skirt.  Of using his mouth, listening to Anders makes nonsense noises from somewhere above him, of feeling the softness of his cock stiffen to potency under his ministrations.  He shakes his head and swallows.

 

“This is stupid.  We better get on with it before Hawke comes back,” Fenris says gruffly, and pulls the old green patterned smock-dress over his head.  It makes the t-shirt he’s already wearing ride up, exposing his belly and chest, and when he finally wrests the shirt free, he catches a look on Anders’ face that he knows he’s seen before.  The mischief is gone; instead is a species of furtive adoration.  He watches, seeing Anders’ throat work, and he smiles slightly, pulling his own t-shirt back down slowly.  His mouth suddenly feels very dry; his breath feels like it’s caught in his chest.  When Anders finally looks at his face, he feigns confidence he does not feel to growl, “Like what you saw?”

 

“Mm-hmm,” is all that Anders manages, and then he says shyly, “Fen?  Would you… help me with this zip?  I think it’s stuck.”

“Ugh,” Fenris says, and rolls his eyes.  But it is just for forms sake - he rises quickly enough, padding in his bare feet to where Anders stands surrounded by discarded items of clothing.  He goes to Anders back, begins to worry at the zip, which is indeed stuck - the teeth have caught on the fabric surrounding it.  When finally he manages to undo it, however, he does not move away immediately.  Anders is quiet, and Fenris licks his lips, steadying himself.  He cannot afford to think too much about this - it will never happen if he thinks too much, and Maker, he wants it.  He wants it to happen.  So he slides his hand around the band of fabric at the top of the skirt and listens to Anders breathing change to short, desperate pants.  

“Do you want..?” he asks, voice pitched low.

 

“Yes,” Anders says quickly, softly.  They stay there a moment longer, Fenris feeling almost paralyzed, until seemingly of their own volition, his hands move.  He slides his fingers back around the waist of the skirt, then down the seams to bunch the fabric up, pulling the long skirt higher around Anders’ hips.  Eventually it is high enough so that he can reach underneath it, he moves his hands around to the front of Anders’ body, deftly undoing the fly of Anders’ jeans.  He has pressed his face against Anders’ back, feels the warmth of his body against his cheek, the hitch of his breath in his lungs.  Without thinking, he thrusts his hands down the front of Anders’ trousers, along the tops of his thighs, eliciting a soft moan from the human as he pushes both jeans and underwear down in one motion.  And oh, that moan, it turns his caution to ash and he growls, “Turn around.”

 

Anders does.  Fenris doesn’t look at his face, he concentrates on first taking Anders cock in his hand, pulling gently on it, then on how Anders’ breathing shifts, the pitch of it evening out.   He can feel Anders’ eyes on him, cannot help but imagine the look on his face; lips parted, the burnished copper of his eyes and hair in the low light, blush rising to his cheeks as Fenris strokes him with one hand.  “Can I,” Anders begins, his voice rough, then clears his throat.  “Can I take your shirt off?  Please?”

 

He only wants to say  _ yes _ .  That’s all he wants.  But he cannot bring himself to utter it, cannot make his mouth say the word, and so he takes his hand from Anders, hating the way it makes Anders look; resigned, a forced little smile coming to his lips as if to say,  _ oh well  _ as the skirt falls back over his half-hard cock.  Fenris opens his mouth, trying to make the words come, trying to reassure Anders that he wants this, he does, it’s just… this expectation that he should share in what happens to his body, that he is not a tool, or a plaything.  That he should even be asked is slightly terrifying.  But paralysis born of terror is not what he wants either, so he takes the hem of the t-shirt he wears over his head in one motion, dropping it on the floor as he steps closer to Anders, beginning to undo his own jeans as he does.  Anders’ hands flutter at Fenris’ shoulders as Fenris pulls the skirt up again, having freed himself from the confines of his pants.  Once he has raised the skirt sufficiently to expose Anders’ again, he leans back, and asks, voice ragged with want, “You do me, and I’ll do you?”

 

“Uh huh,” Anders pants and leans down again, then seems to think of something and asks, “Okay to touch you?”

Fenris only nods, so lost to the smooth sensation of Anders’ cock in his hand.  He strokes, once, twice, then takes his hand back and spits into the palm.  Anders cups his chin gently then, bringing their lips together quickly, reflexively; they are still both rather shy of this, contact more strangely intimate than sex. Anders grins, Fenris can feel it against his lips, envision it, then he  pulls away, looking at Fenris as he licks his own palm, then encircles Fenris’ cock with his hand.  And Maker, for once it isn’t icy, it’s only a little cooler than Fenris’ own skin.  They fall into a rhythm quickly, Fenris resting his forehead on Anders’ chest, watching Anders’ hand as he strokes and teases, the long fingers, the pale pink skin dotted with freckles and strewn with red-gold hair.  Anders sighs and his hot breath skims the top of Fenris’ ear, sending a sudden shiver of pleasure through him - before he has considered, Fenris moans and asks, his voice a mere sigh, “Again?”

 

The hand not working Fenris’ cock comes up his back, arm encircling him by the shoulder, the fingers caressing tiny circles behind his ear, gliding up the edge of it, then down again to circle the lobe.  “Alright?” Anders asks him softly, then bends his head down, hunching his body awkwardly to lick and suckle gently at the skin of Fenris throat, moving up toward his ear.  It  _ is  _ awkward, he has to bend away from Fenris to do it, but Maker, it feels so, oh, it feels so good.  Fenris moans softly, tightening his hand on Anders’ cock, increasing the pace, trying to tell him without words that  _ yes _ it is alright and  _ no _ don’t stop.  

 

And oh, the sweet, soft kisses that fall upon his neck, and the warming, damp hand, pulling, coaxing, wanting him, the rhythm of their bodies together and the whole of the world outside this moment, this attic with the smell of dust and the passing of years in the air, it all is lost.  He feels, he feels so light, so strange, almost as if he could float away altogether, almost as if Anders’ hand is the only thing keeping him here, in this moment.  He reaches out, blindly, questing for another handhold, reaches up, out of the oubliette of his pleasure, and finds Anders’ hair.  He takes it in his fist, the soft red-gold of it, oh, and Anders groans against the point of his jaw, it is enough, it is  _ too much _ , it sends him to the crest of the wave where he hangs, the moment suspended like just like

 

his mind it wipes a blank it’s just blank a blank slate that now they can rewrite everything that happened all of that which has gone before the dust and everything is gone no nothing matters just this moment and all those which will proceed it everything to come after that is where they will rewrite their histories that is   that           ohthatmoment.

 

Anders whines, quiet and desperate against his ear, and Fenris realises he has come.  He is clutching Anders’ hair so tightly, only really realises it now that the moment has passed, now that Anders’ hand is sticky and dripping with spend.  He sighs, quickens the movement of his hand, watching Anders sidelong as his grip tightens on Fenris’ shoulder, as he rocks his hips unthinkingly into Fenris’ hand.  And then, with a short intake of breath and a final clutch at his shoulder, Anders comes as well, hitching his hips forward as he does.  Fenris cannot help but smile a little as Anders gasps out his held breath, flushed and damp against him in these borrowed clothes.  He slows his hand, working Anders through the peak of his orgasm, showing him the way back to earth.  Anders inhales, then exhales in a sigh and opens his eyes, smiling tiredly.  They look at each other for a moment, in the almost-dark of the cramped attic, and Fenris smiles back.  “I like you in this skirt,” he whispers.  


 

“Good,” Anders whispers back, “Because I think I’m going to keep it.”


End file.
